


All Fun and Games

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, F/M, Season/Series 10 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2303693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's a good-looking evil sonofabitch, he feels fucking fantastic, and if he finds a pair of legs he wants to spread, well, he never has to use anything other than charm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Fun and Games

* * *

He walks into a bar, and he draws glances.

It's not new. Dean's been the subject of interested once- and twice-overs in dive bars since he was fourteen; he's been returning them just as long. He knows how he looks. He's always had the currency of sex appeal, and he learned early on exactly how to spend it.

He's never found it difficult to avoid going home alone. Whatever else the whole demon thing might've changed about him (nothing, he knows, the rare times he bothers thinking about it; being a demon's changed nothing about him at all, and that might be pride he feels; sure, he'll call it pride), that remains the same. Maybe even better. He's a good-looking evil sonofabitch, he feels fucking fantastic, and if he finds a pair of legs he wants to spread, well, he never has to use anything other than charm.

* * *

Val's been talking up this new Indian place for weeks, so when she and Evie go to Beth's apartment on Sunday afternoon for weekend recovery and debrief, they get takeout. They make it through most of the food, half a tray of Evie's homemade butterscotch bars, and all of The Heat\--which is impressive, actually, given how Beth picks at her nails and trades exasperated glances with Val even through the tracheotomy scene, which is her favourite part--before Evie takes pity on her friends. "Okay, so, the guy from the bar--"

"Oh thank Christ," Beth says at the same time Val punches the air with a hearty, "Fucking _finally_." They grin at each other, then fix Evie with expectant, lecherous gazes.

Evie feels like she's about to kick puppies. "Ladies," she says sorrowfully, "I truly regret to inform you that he is _the most selfish fuck_. And I mean that literally."

If she hadn't had to learn it the hard way, she'd laugh at the way their faces fall. "Oh god," Beth says, nose wrinkling with distaste, "he's not one of those guys who skates through life on his looks and thinks it's enough to just lie there being pretty, is he?"

"Do you mean: Brad?" While they groan, Evie chases butterscotch crumbs around her plate, then sucks the flattened, gooey mess of them off her fingertip. Fucking Brad. Looking back, though--and in light of more recent non-events--had all those mirrors in his bedroom really been so terrible? "No, he's not one of those guys, because those guys spare half a thought to being enough _at all_. Dean? Just didn't care. He didn't give a single, solitary fuck, and again, I mean that literally."

Val makes a disgusted noise. "A man looks that good, there's always something wrong with him. I keep hoping, but it's always, always true. Ugh, such a waste."

"He didn't even fall asleep when he was done." The more she thinks about it, the more insulting it gets. "Which would've sucked, sure, but at least unconsciousness would've given him a fucking _reason_ for not finishing me off. He just didn't bother. Did his thing, rolled off me, and lay there with this stupid, satisfied smirk on his face until he decided to leave."

"Oh, honey."

"What a tool. Forget him. Pick up a girl next week."

Evie deflates. She starts picking through the dregs of the takeout containers, even though she's not hungry anymore. "Nobody," she says, " _nobody_ has ever made me feel more like a goddamn hole in the wall."

Val says, "Literally?" Only half a joke.

Evie sighs. She hadn't expected flowers and chocolates and lingering, soulful stares--he was just a fucking one night stand, for chrissake--but the comparison had hit her as she watched Dean pull on his boots and walk out of her bedroom without even a glance back, without even a wave or a word of goodbye. She kind of hates herself for not being able to shake it. "Pretty much literally, yeah."

* * *

" _You let him tie you up?_ "

Liv's droopy old basset hound, Toby, lifts his head from where he'd tucked it against the arm of the couch, startled out of his nap by her shrill voice. Clea reaches over to give him a pat, and rushes to reassure the horrified expression off Liv's face. "It was fine! It was fine, I could move around, I wasn't tied _to_ anything. I just." She shrugs--carefully, because her shoulders are still a little sore and she doesn't want Liv to notice--and twitches the corners of her mouth into a small, effacing smile. "I wanted to try it."

Liv looks a little less horrified but a lot more appalled. "Trying it's fine, but not with some random guy who picked you up at a bar. Jesus, Clea, he could've done _anything_ to you."

"He didn't though! Well, he did, but--" She shakes her head at the way Liv goes tense all over, rolling her eyes and pushing out a laugh to let her know she was joking. She curses herself for her badly-timed attempt at humour. Why is she so nervous talking about this, anyway? "Look, Liv, I'm _fine_. I promise."

Liv doesn't look particularly convinced, but at least she relaxes a bit. After a few watchful seconds--in which Clea wishes, not for the first time, that she didn't blush quite so easily--Liv sighs. "Okay. So. Tell me about it." When Clea gives her a narrow-eyed look--mostly playful, _mostly_ \--Liv raises her hands, palms out. "No judgement, I promise."

Clea looks down at Toby, who, wuffling softly, worms around beside her until he can flop down with his nose pushed against her knee. She gives him another pat. "It was--" she starts, then stops and tries to figure out what to say that won't make Liv freak out again. They'd only done what she wanted to, after all; okay, maybe Dean had gotten a little...kinkier...than she'd intended, but there wasn't anything wrong with that. God, her face is just _burning_. "--different," she settles on, and for some reason, she sounds a little uncertain. She doesn't mean to--she doesn't want to--and the urge not to seem unsure loosens her tongue. "I mean, it was like in  Fifty Shades, kind of, but not really what I expected? The pain thing, I mean, it was...different. I mean," she hurries to add, seeing the tight line of Liv's mouth in her periphery, "I was into it. And he was into it. He liked it." She looks from the dog to her wine glass on the coffee table; reaches out and picks it up, suppressing a wince as her weight shifts on her still-tender thighs and butt. She swallows some wine. "He, um. He liked it."

She can feel Liv watching her again. Not that she hasn't been watching her since they sat down, but-- _watching_ her. Clea feels a slow, hot wash of humiliation, feels prickly and stupid in its wake. She's probably a giant tomato at this point, and it's so _stupid_. He'd only done what she'd _asked_. "You did say 'no judgement'," she reminds Liv, and laughs a little to cover her defensiveness, and plucks at the cuffs of her sleeves to cover the raw red rope burns Liv keeps eying on her wrists.

* * *

It's Tequila Tuesday at El Estuco: twenty shots for twenty bucks, which Dani collects from the bar and delivers to their table with a habitual flourish. "You have to have two," she tells Saj, taking two off the tray and setting them in front of her, slapping her hand when she tries to put them back, "because then the rest of us can have six and it'll be even."

"I'll have _one_ ," Saj corrects, "because someone has to make sure you lushes don't choke on your own puke later."

Nina pauses with a shot glass in one hand and the salt shaker in the other, looking offended. "Excuse me, what kind of lightweights do you think we are?"

"She thinks two shots'll make her too drunk to roll us onto our sides, which, c'mon, she won't even have to. I'm more curious what kind of lightweight _she_ is," Dani says matter-of-factly, parcelling out the rest of the drinks.

"The kind of lightweight who can always reevaluate her decision to endanger the backseat of her car to get you people home tonight," Saj retorts sweetly.

The threat of drunken public transit effectively puts an end to all teasing about alcohol tolerance. The girls stop talking about their booze and start drinking it.

Everyone but Saj is half a plate of nachos and three shots in when Dani drums her fingers on the table, arches an eyebrow, and says, "So, Penny needs to tell us what happened with that guy she hooked up with on Friday."

Saj thinks back. She'd been drinking on Friday, and a lot of the night's pretty blurry, but--Penny and a guy, she does remember Penny talking to a guy at the bar, and that guy had been--oh fuck, he'd been-- "You went home with that guy? Holy shit, Penny, he was gorgeous!"

Somehow, in the time it took Saj to put a face (and a body, and a _mouth_ , Jesus _Christ_ ) to Penny's pickup, Penny's downed two more shots. Despite her pink tequila flush, though, she looks a little pale; she picks up a nacho, then drops it, then reaches for the salt shaker again. "He was actually--kind of a jerk," she mutters.

"That beautiful thing?" Nina waves in dismissal. "Of course he's a fucking jerk. Like I'd care if I got to look at him naked."

"And if he held you by the jaw and wouldn't let you pull off while he came down your throat bareback?" The table hushes. Penny looks up from her selection of lime wedges and sees the looks she's getting. "Don't know what the hell he eats, but he tastes like shit," she adds, a little too loud, and pounds her next shot in punctuation, and grimaces theatrically as Dani and Nina shriek with laughter.

A little later, when the other two have stumbled off to the bathroom and Penny's stumbled back from the bar with a double rum and Coke, Saj leans over and catches her bleary eyes. "Hey, you okay? You're kind of--" Getting completely shitfaced in the middle of the week, she stops herself from saying, which you hadn't been until we started talking about that guy. More diplomatically, she goes with, "Don't your office hours start at, like, eight in the morning on Wednesdays?"

Her concern takes a few seconds to penetrate. When it does, Penny shakes her head and sing-songs, "Fine, fine, I'm fine." Before Saj can stop her, she's picked up the last tequila shot--Saj's untouched second one--and tipped it back; after shaking off the taste, she slurs, "Look, it washes right out," and hiccoughs something like a laugh.

* * *

There's a redhead at the bar, a perfect, curvy hourglass in a plunging tank and skintight jeans. As Dean draws up to the rail, she lifts her beer bottle to her mouth and her left arm catches his eye: it's bare and toned and fully sleeved in a snaking tattoo that, in the dim, shifting light, seems to writhe all over her skin. He can see a few more colourful whorls and points on the back of her neck, peeking out from under her pulled-up hair and above the collar of her shirt, and his dick twitches at the thought of enjoying the art show on her back while he fucks her on her hands and knees.

Sidling in next to her, he signals the bartender for a beer of his own. "And another one for the lady," he adds, and gives her a slow smile when she turns to look him over.

She barely glances at him before facing resolutely front. "I'm waiting for someone."

Dean chuckles. "Sweetheart, whoever he is, I guarantee you I'm more interesting." When this gets him nothing, he amends, "She? Hell, she can come, too. Three's a party."

When all the redhead gives him is a flat, "Fuck off."--doesn't even look at him to say it--honestly, he's a little insulted. "Aw, c'mon," he says, still smiling, and leans in to send his voice right into her ear. "I like your ink," he confides, low and smooth. Leans in further as she tries to duck away. "Wanna see more of it, that's all."

That earns him another look, finally, a wary sideways glare. "Fuck _off_ , asshole."

She's loud enough to catch the bartender's attention. "Hey, buddy, back off," he says as he white knights his way over, some college-aged kid not even in Dean's human weight class. Dean rolls his eyes, pulls on the Force and slams the guy's hand down on the board where he cuts his garnishes; makes him pick up his own knife and hover it over the back of his own straining hand, ready to plunge straight down and nail it there. Turns his head to give the guy a slow, black blink, and freezes his throat before he can make a damn sound.

Blinks his eyes green again as he turns back to the girl, who's darting startled glances between him and the frozen bartender. He can smell fear on her now, sharp and sweet. He smiles again, pleasantly; lets it work on her, and breathes her in again. "I knew this girl once, kinda like you," he tells her, sliding closer. "Bottle redhead, great rack, total bitch. She had this trick for getting into people's heads." He's got her by the eyes now, fixed and staring. He watches her pupils contract as he tilts his head thoughtfully. "Wonder what'd happen if I got into your head?" Pulling a wisp of power from his hold on the bartender, he takes hold of the redhead, too; leans in again and lets his lips brush the shell of her ear as he murmurs, "Maybe I'd change your mind about me."

Her fear turns into goddamn perfume. Fuck, Dean's hard, the idea of using Abaddon's shotgunning trick to get that bird's-eye view he wants sending a hot little thrill straight through his cold, dead heart. Sure, he's never actually done it before, but hell: he's strong, he's motivated, and he can't imagine the learning curve's that steep.

He's considering the logistics of the thing--gathering himself under his skin, shaping the demon into a core of intent, an oily black funnel, honed and focused and fuck, the redhead smells like panic at this point, he loves it--when an abrupt tug on his awareness breaks his concentration to pieces: a summoning, too focused and too powerful to ignore.

Oh, for fuck's sake. "Crowley, you needy bitch," he says to the tug, watching the redhead stagger backwards as his hold on her slips away. In the last second before he loses his grip entirely, he gives the bartender's knife hand a spiteful shove, straight down.

Fuck it, he thinks. His streak remains intact. He's still never used anything other than charm.

**Author's Note:**

> "if he’s a fucking predator now, shoot the scenes like he’s a fucking predator. not this charming casual sexist dick dean shit, like wow, spring break man, what a fucking hoot, this boy’s gone wild! don’t set the fucking thing to a rock’n’roll beat, don’t use the audio-visual language of your media form to treat this like his casual misogyny is fucking _cool,_ treat it like it’s _creepy_! because it is _enormously fucking creepy_ " --[robotmango](http://robotmango.tumblr.com/post/97231521154/like-sure-this-is-dean-stripped-of-his-softness)
> 
>  
> 
> Screencap from the pre-season 10 promo.


End file.
